


Ending the Long Count

by storm_of_sharp_things



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q00 - Freeform, 2012, Chaos Twins, JAQ - Freeform, M/M, Maya Apocalypse (not), Mythology References, Old gods new tricks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 18:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21281534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_sharp_things/pseuds/storm_of_sharp_things
Summary: It's the eve of the end of the world (if you're a nutjob) and James, Alec, and Q discuss mythology in a pub and do a little reminiscing.
Relationships: James Bond/Q/Alec Trevelyan
Comments: 32
Kudos: 106





	Ending the Long Count

**Author's Note:**

> With every scrap of gratitude to [Kryptaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/) and [BootsnBlossoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms)
> 
> I didn't even know I needed an Alec Trevelyan and James Bond ship in my harbour until they rocked my world and then added Q...
> 
> ____
> 
> **ART!**
> 
> [blood-suits-and-tears](https://blood-suits-and-tears.tumblr.com/) gave me a gorgeous mood-board! **[Click here to see it!](https://blood-suits-and-tears.tumblr.com/post/623704111757623296/collab-prompt-table-fill-6-mood-board-based-on)**
> 
> And [Ksan](https://ksanart.tumblr.com/) gave me an utterly STUNNING piece of **[art](https://64.media.tumblr.com/6fcf98f3f7f5e2f4e6cc73e772c41101/d58ae7da3cacf7ce-4d/s2048x3072/f5785dcd8ac07702ebd16d4ded6f6f85e5c4dc9a.jpg)** for my birthday that is at the end of the fic. GO. LOOK. DROOL. DESPAIR THAT IT IS **MINE ALL MINE FOREVERMORE MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

21 December 2012

London, England

Oliver, the owner of the Wolf and Bullpup pub, had started out in MI6 many years ago but a stray explosion had left him lacking a couple of fingers, most of a leg, and any further prospects in the agent program. The agency had offered him a rather advanced prosthetic limb and a desk job, but rather than sit a desk and watch others accomplish what he no longer could, he accepted the prosthetic, turned down the desk job, and bought the pub down the street where half of MI6 had tended to end up after work. The life of a publican was very different from what he’d always envisioned doing, but odds were he’d lived a lot longer than he otherwise might’ve and he liked the fact that he provided a very unofficial safe haven for the agents and support personnel that were doing what he no longer could.

The occasional downsides, of course, tended to revolve around the agents that took advantage of that safe haven.

Thus, he was understandably wary when Trevelyan and Bond sloped on in, to all appearances tipsy. This particular Wednesday evening was already hopping, thanks to the end-of-the-world Mayan apocalypse nutjob panic, and the addition of the Chaos Twins to the volatile mix made him uncharacteristically nervous.

“What’ll it be, lads?” he asked, fingers dancing on the keypad under the counter to unlock the secure liquor storage where he kept the stuff 006 and 007 preferred.

Trevelyan grinned at him as he leaned on the bartop. “Olly! When have I _ever_ had _anything_ but your _finest_ vodka?” One of his elbows slipped slightly and he ended up leaning against Bond’s shoulder. Bond shoved him back upright, a little too hard, and Trevelyan came to rest leaning in the other direction against the pillar that supported the corner of the bar. “James,” he frowned. “I’m wounded. After all this time. _All_ this time. God damn, it’s been a long time. You push me away. Like I mean nothing.”

Bond snorted and leaned on the bartop himself, fixing Oliver with an attempt at an intent stare. “Give me...something new. Something...I haven’t had ten thousand bloody times already.”

Oliver blinked. These two were clearly more than tipsy, and it was a startling sight. The 00s were generally much more cautious about their state of inebriation, at least in public. “It’s looking to me like you’ve already been a bit overserved, lads.”

Bond straightened somewhat unsteadily and gave him an incredulous look. “Are you turning us away? On this night of all nights?”

“What?” Trevelyan demanded in offense, fumbling for the gun in his shoulder holster and failing to make contact the first few times.

Oliver sighed at the obvious exaggeration. As if a 00 would _ever_ be unable to draw his weapon if he were mostly upright. “All right, boys, no need to overreact. Park yourselves and I’ll see what I can do.”

“_Boys_?” Trevelyan demanded in even deeper offense. “Listen, infant...” Bond nudged him with an elbow and Trevelyan abruptly shut his mouth.

Oliver rubbed a hand tiredly over the thinning silver stubble covering his head and gave Trevelyan a mild glare, momentarily envious of the agent’s mostly unlined face and still-blond hair and full complement of limbs. “If the world’s ending tonight, you two are pretty much the last thing I want to deal with. Now shut your gobs and sit down.”

Trevelyan grinned at him and slung an arm around Bond’s shoulders, abruptly much steadier than he’d previously demonstrated, though still far from sober. “See, James? I told you Olly would take care of us no matter what. And the world’s _not_ ending.”

Bond shrugged at Oliver with a slight smile. “You’ll have to pardon him...”

“Us!”

“...as we’re having something of a celebration,” Bond finished smoothly.

Oliver poured 006 a shot of his favorite vodka and set the bottle in a container of ice. “What’re you celebrating if not the Mayan Apocalypse?” he asked as he turned to survey his liquor array in search of something for 007.

“It’s Maya,” snapped Trevelyan. “Not Mayan. No ‘n.’ Like ninja, it’s both the plural and singular. Or is it a possessive? Wait...”

Bond snorted as Oliver turned to raise an eyebrow at them. “Western civilization, butchering other languages again. And, no, we’re not celebrating any fictional apocalypse. It’s the end of the Long Count - thirteen b’ak’tun. A bit over 5,000 years. Another turn of the calendar cycle and a good excuse for a party, that’s all.” Trevelyan nodded enthusiastically, knocking back his shot and pouring himself another.

Oliver blinked at them both. “You...know a lot about this?”

“We bloody well should!” Trevelyan waved an arm wildly. “All this...this Western civilization stuff...”

Bond ducked the arm, grabbed it and tucked it safely back against Trevelyan’s side.

“...thank you...all _this_...is practically brand-bloody-_new_ in the world. But, _nooooOOOOoooo_...” Trevelyan dragged out the vowel, eventually seeming to lose track of his argument.

Bond sighed, shrugging at Oliver. “A couple of centuries and suddenly Europe’s the pinnacle of human endeavor. If you ignore the past several thousands of years...”

“Some of us can’t,” Trevelyan said, putting his empty shot glass down on the bar with a thud.

“Hey,” Bond said softly, wrapping a hand around the back of Trevelyan’s neck. “Hunter of birds. At least you haven’t had to do it by yourself.”

Trevelyan closed his eyes for a moment. “Been a long time since we’ve been _that_, Jaguar Sun.”

Oliver regarded the two agents thoughtfully as they leaned together, then turned away to his stash of high-end and unusual alcohol. “Got something you might like, 007...”

He pulled out the bottle of D’Aristi Xtabentún he’d bought on a whim earlier in the year when the liquor salesman had stopped by and splashed some over a chunk of ice. Bond wasn’t normally fond of sweet heavy stuff, but he’d a hunch this might appeal right now.

Both agents focused on the glass as Oliver slid it over, and Bond picked it up warily, swirling it around and sniffing at it. His eyes widened and he took a sip, exhaling slowly and letting his eyes slide shut as he swallowed.

“I smell honey and anise,” Trevelyan murmured, leaning to sniff at the glass Bond held.

“It reminds me a little of balché,” Bond sighed, taking another sip. “Well fucking _done_, Oliver.”

Oliver nodded to him as some drunken arseholes at the other end of the bar started banging their empty glasses around. “Just you sit and enjoy it, then. Be right back.”

Sorting out the soused city boys took him longer than he wanted, and when he finally had a moment to glance over at the two 00s, he found they’d moved to a table and been colonized by a handful of giggling women. Trevelyan had one on each knee and was earnestly explaining mythology to them and Bond was keeping a patient look on his face as three more argued over his lap.

“Heroic twins are fairly common in legends,” Trevelyan was saying. “Romulus and Remus and the founding of Rome.”

Bond nodded with a faint smile. “The monster slaying twins of the Navajo creation stories.”

Trevelyan’s face lit up. “The Diné Bahane’! Naayééʼ Neizghání and Tóbájíshchíní!” His expression was distant for a moment as his collection of lap kittens boggled at him and then he grinned at Bond. “Arsu and Azizos.”

One of the women poked his shoulder. “Who?”

Bond gave Trevelyan a reminiscent smile. “Syrian twin gods of the evening and morning stars. Not so concerned with saving the world, though.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes. “Caravans were the lifeblood of civilization back then. Protecting them counts.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Wait,” one of the women said, clearly confused. “Is this the Mayan stuff?”

“Maya,” Trevelyan said, frowning at her. “No ‘n.’ And no, that would be Xbalanque and Hunahpo, the Hero Twins.”

Another of the women snorted unattractively. “And who are they when they’re at home, then?”

Trevelyan scowled at her. “Only the brothers who played ball with the Lords of Death and Darkness to avenge the deaths of their father and uncle. Only the heroes who died and came back to life and defeated the entire underworld.”

“So were they gods?” another woman asked him, eyes wide in tipsy fascination.

Bond and Trevelyan shared a look that Oliver couldn’t quite identify.

“Let’s just say they weren’t quite human,” Bond answered, leaning forward intently.

The pub phone started ringing insistently and Oliver shook his head and went over to pick it up. “Wolf and Bullpup, Oliver speaking.”

“Oliver, this is Q. Have you any 00s there right now?” The Quartermaster sounded a touch out of breath, Oliver thought to himself. Not surprising if he were chasing down these lads.

“Got 006 and 007 here.”

“Oh thank any gods. Are they drunk?”

“Well, they’re not sober...”

Q muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely obscene. “I’m on my way. Can you keep them there?”

“Might could manage. Don’t delay much.” He was answered by a click and the dial tone, and he shrugged and hung up the phone.

“_What do you mean it’s played with severed heads_?” one of the women shrieked. “_Ewwww_!”

Trevelyan was grinning savagely at her and Bond was hiding his expression behind the glass of Xtabentún, but Oliver could see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and knew 007 was amused.

“Well, it was a _very_ serious ball game,” Trevelyan said, laughing. “Outcomes could mean war or peace, life or death.”

“So not at all like cricket,” another of the women said dryly and Bond saluted her with his glass.

009 sauntered over at that point, attracted by the giggling tipsy females, and Oliver swore under his breath. Trevelyan and Saunders did not care for each other, and that was putting it mildly. Normally Bond could be counted on to diffuse any situation between the two, but Oliver could tell by Bond’s expression of predatory interest that tonight was not a peacekeeping night.

“Oi! Saunders!” Oliver shouted, holding up a bottle of his favorite scotch.

Saunders glanced at him with an amused look and waved, clearly not about to be diverted. Oliver cursed again. Sodding 00s.

“Ladies,” Saunders said smoothly. “Aren’t you finding these gentlemen just too appalling for words? There’s more civilized company, and better conversation, should you desire.”

007 leaned back in his seat to watch with a lazy smile as 006 tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, not a single sign of inebriation in evidence on either of them.

“Wasn’t aware you were an expert on civilized behaviour, Saunders,” Trevelyan said easily. “Especially after that last arrest for rape and murder. Of course, the charges _were_ dropped,” he added generously.

All the women leaned away from the suddenly murderous-looking Saunders. If it hadn’t been happening in _his_ bar, Oliver would’ve been inclined to applaud. There wasn’t a damn thing Saunders could say to recover from that skewering. Oliver knew the truth of the matter was that the charges had been placed to give Saunders access to a prisoner in France, but there was certainly no explaining that.

Saunders stepped closer to Trevelyan and sneered. “Nothing the Chaos Twins say can be trusted, ladies. I hope they haven’t been filling your tender ears with stories.”

“Are Chaos Twins the same as Hero Twins?” one of the women asked uncertainly.

Saunders brayed a laugh. “_Heroes_? Is _that _what they’ve been telling you?”

Oliver inhaled deeply, getting ready to shout.

“Well, I have admit to disappointment,” Q said lightly as he appeared behind Saunders. All three agents looked at him with faint guilt, quickly hidden. “In light of the apocalyptic madness currently suffusing our city, I’d have expected you gentlemen to be shining beacons of sanity and calm, but instead I find you on the verge of starting a common bar brawl.” He sighed deeply, shaking his head, and tugged at his anorak in faint irritation. “Saunders, I’m absolutely _certain _there’s paperwork I’m still awaiting from you. Perhaps you should double check your email outbox, make sure that it was sent properly.”

Saunders opened his mouth before his brain managed to fight past the alcohol, snapped it shut, nodded, and cast a last glare at Trevelyan before he strode away. The women looked at the slender, curly-haired, bespectacled young man in awe.

Bond and Trevelyan both grinned at the Quartermaster and Bond offered him his glass. “Do try this, Q, and give us your opinion.”

Q regarded Bond evenly for a moment before taking the glass and sniffing at it. His eyes lit up at the aroma and he took a delicate sip, handing the glass back reluctantly. “Similar to balché,” he said thoughtfully. “A good choice for the occasion, James.”

“All credit goes to the good publican,” 007 told him. “I’m beginning to suspect our Oliver has more rabbits than hats back there.”

“I’m sure that made more sense in your head,” Q said with an affectionate smile, which he also turned on 006. “Alec. Don’t tell me you were boring your lovely audience with Mesoamerican mythology.”

“Not just,” Trevelyan said, defensively. “We were specifically picking out instances of divine heroic twins.”

“Of course you were.”

One of the ladies on Trevelyan’s knees giggled and leaned against him. “Divine is right, love. Or we could go with heavenly.”

“Sublime,” suggested the one who’d won the fight for Bond’s lap with a saucy smile and a wriggle.

“Celestial,” added the other woman draped over Trevelyan.

“Elysian, even,” said Q wryly, rolling his eyes and glancing over at Oliver, who held up the bottle of Xtabentún and a glass with ice. “Do excuse me, please.”

Oliver poured the liquor into the glass and handed it to Q as he took a seat at the bar. “Your lads are running a bit wild tonight, Quartermaster.”

“It’s a bit of a wild night, what with the end days being upon us and all,” Q replied with a lopsided and wry smile.

“Strangely knowledgeable about all that, they are. Seems to be knowledge you share somewhat?”

Q shrugged. “A common interest. We’re all three quite fond of history and such.”

“Mmm,” Oliver answered in an agreeable fashion. Q gave him a sharp look over the rim of the glass and then winced as one of the women shrieked with laughter.

Oliver chuckled. “Popular lads they are, too.”

“I’m aware,” Q said shortly, taking another sip. “Oh, that’s good. Oliver, can I get my hands on a couple of bottles of this?”

“I’ll have some sent over in the next day or so.”

The Quartermaster smiled at him. “You are a treasure. How’s the prosthetic? Need any fine-tuning?”

“Not since the last time you laid hands on it, thank you, Quartermaster.”

“Glad to hear it.” Q leaned back in his chair, listening with a contemplative manner to Trevelyan and Bond behind him entertaining their audience with outrageous stories of heroes overcoming monsters.

Of a sudden, Oliver felt a shiver pass over him as Q’s face seemed to take on an ageless authority, becoming stern and distant as his gaze settled idly on the glass in his hands, an impression of immense power and the weight of many years emanating from him.

Then came another piercing shriek of laughter and Q winced again, turning to give Trevelyan and Bond a deeply disgusted glare. He turned it on Oliver when the barkeep snickered.

Oliver held up his hands in defense. “Well, Quartermaster, they can’t all be keepers, can they?”

“That is depressingly evident.”

Oliver gave him a sly look. “Your lads’re just having you on, you know. Trying to get a rise from you.”

Q gave him a level stare. “Also depressingly evident, apparently.”

Oliver snorted and poured another finger of honeyed liquor into Q’s glass. The Quartermaster saluted him with it and sipped, a reminiscent expression slipping over his face again.

“Didn’t they do bloody sacrifices, these Maya?”

“Oh yes,” Q nodded thoughtfully. “At every important event or time. The nobility would mark most occasions with blood, usually with thorns or stingray spines...”

“_Through their _**_what_**?” came a high-pitched squawk from the group behind him.

Q smirked and indicated behind him with a wave of his hand. “Timing,” he chuckled. “Both sexes would pierce their tongues to draw blood and the men would pierce their erect penises.”

Oliver twitched a little. “More than once?”

Q laughed at him and took another sip of his drink. “It was an honor, you barbarian,” he teased. “In fact, the permanent holes in their tongues caused them to speak with a lisp, an important realization for the linguists when they were recreating the language from the stelae they left.”

At Oliver’s slight frown, Q inclined his head and continued. “The stone monuments. The records were carved into stone pillars and onto the walls of temples for permanence. And that’s what’s twisted about _this_ culture’s search for apocalypses,” he said, getting a little fiercer with each sip. “Always on the lookout for life-changing or earth-shattering endings. The year 2000, the zombie apocalypse, any given comet that whizzes past, the Maya Long Count, which was never about endings in the first place. The Maya, all the Mesoamericans, were all about permanence, having or making a place in the universe. The calendars reached far back before the beginnings of each culture and well after they fell into history. It’s still counting, it’s just that they aren’t really here to celebrate anymore.”

Q went a little quiet at that. “And the turning of the Long Count should be a hell of a celebration,” he said into his glass. He took another sip and Oliver thought he was shifting toward morose, ignoring the disappointed sounds coming from the women behind him.

Trevelyan slid his arms around Q from behind, hooking his chin over Q’s shoulder. “O serpent heart hid with a feathered face...” he said with a slow smile.

Q snorted and let his head fall back a little. “If you’re going to misquote Shakespeare at me, Alec...”

“Well, the good Bard can’t get everything right.”

Bond coughed a laugh as he rested a hand on Trevelyan’s back. “As if you can, Alec?”

“I know how to celebrate the Long Count properly,” he said lasciviously, waggling his eyebrows.

Q turned his head and raised his eyebrow. “At the Temple of the Feathered Serpent at Teotihuacan, at the crest at sunrise, driving stingray spines through our pricks and cloth twisted with thorns through our tongues?”

Trevelyan wrinkled his nose. “In company with a hundred thousand gaping tourists and shocked New Age peaceniks? I think not.”

Bond sniffed in disdain. “We were thinking a more private ceremony.”

“Much more private,” Trevelyan agreed. He dropped his voice to whisper in Q’s ear, but Oliver caught a fragment about a receiving a shipment of obsidian blades and thunked the bottle of D’Aristi Xtabentún onto the bar in front of them.

“Gentlemen, much as I’d adore learning more about your delightfully deviant sexual practices,” and he rolled his eyes in fond exasperation at their smirks, “I'm thinking you should head for home before midnight so you can enjoy yourselves properly. Also, I'd like to reduce the number and severity of the fights that will inevitably break out tonight.”

Bond and Trevelyan glanced at each other and shrugged. “He’s not wrong,” Bond said and Trevelyan nodded wryly in agreement.

“And take this bottle, with my compliments, to celebrate with. Q, I’ll sort out a couple more for you, should we wake to find civilization has not yet ended.”

The Quartermaster nodded and got up, and Oliver averted his eyes from where Bond had slipped a hand under his anorak and into the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t have a problem with their relationship at all, but they made such a splendid sight together that it was hard to watch without getting jealous.

The door to the bar was flung open by a drunken couple staggering in, and Oliver blinked at a sudden flare that must have come from the streetlights outside. From the corner of his eye, it looked almost like there’d hung a mane of colorful feathers around Q’s sharp face, but when he looked straight at him, he saw only the shaggy dark hair Trevelyan was running his fingers through luxuriously as he leaned in to nuzzle at Q’s neck.

Q, Oliver thought. Feathered serpent. “Quetzalcoatl,” he blurted out. All three men turned to look at him. “But wasn’t he, umm, Aztec?”

“True,” Bond said, grinning at Q. “But our lad here has always preferred the bloodier sacrificial practices of the Aztecs to the relatively genteel Maya.”

“Relatively. We could be calling him K,” Trevelyan chuckled. “Some Maya called him Kukulkan,” he clarified to Oliver.

Q sniffed primly. “Q’uq’umatz was the name of the creator of the universe.”

Bond ruffled his hair with an obvious deep affection. “There was a feathered serpent deity in every Mesoamerican culture,” he said, turning to smile at Oliver. “He’s almost as pervasive as twins.”

And with a wink, Bond turned Q with a hand on the back of his neck and headed for the door. Trevelyan picked up the liquor bottle and paused to eye Oliver thoughtfully.

Oliver scrubbed at his face and then met Trevelyan’s stare. “Wild night,” he offered.

006 nodded. “Lots of wild stories floating about.”

Oliver laughed and leaned across the bar to offer his maimed hand to the agent. “Who pays any attention to drunken bar tales on the eve of an apocalypse?”

Trevelyan smiled at him and shook his hand. “It’s not the end of the world, Oliver. You’ll live to see the dawn.” And he turned and strode off to where Bond and Q were waiting for him at the door.

And if, when that door was opened, the streetlights outside caused that curious flare again, Oliver was sure he was imagining, again, the flash of colorful feathers around Q and the jaguar-like spotted shadows that dappled the throats and cheeks of the two 00s.

**Author's Note:**

> Alec is a demanding sod to have kicking about your head, so this was a chance for me to reminisce about Maya Hieroglyphic Writing courses back at university while giving him something to do. 
> 
> Also, rest in peace Dr J - I think you might've enjoyed this little sojourn. The world is a poorer place without your dry wit and your homemade mole sauce that ruined me for all other moles.


End file.
